‘Yeah. We make a point of checking out strangers here. Especially guys who have given up driving for five years.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You should know,’ he said, and turning, he stalked off down the sidewalk.
I sat for a long moment, staring through the windshield. I had served my sentence and there was nothing he could do about it, but I knew this could happen in any town I drove in. Once a jailbird to the cops, always a jailbird.
Across the way was a bar. Above the entrance was the simple legend: Joe’s Bar. I felt in need of a drink. Locking the car, I crossed the street and went in.
The bar was big and dark and there were two fans in the ceiling churning up the hot air. For a moment or so, coming in from the bright sunlight, I couldn’t see much, then my eyes adjusted to the dimness. Two men were propping up the long bar counter at the far end, talking to the barkeeper behind the counter. When he saw me, he walked the length of the counter to give me a broad smile of welcome.
‘Howdy, Mr. Devery.’ At a guess, he was fiftyish, short, fat and happy looking. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Joe Summers. I own this joint... What’s your pleasure?’
‘Scotch on the rocks, please.’ I regarded him, a little startled, ‘How did you know who I am?’
He grinned.
‘My boy had a driving lesson from you this morning, Mr. Devery. He tells me you’re sharp. Coming from him who thinks anyone over twenty-five is square is praise.’
‘Sammy Summers?’ I remembered the kid. He hadn’t been one of the bright ones.
‘That’s him. Scotch on the rocks right here, Mr. Devery. Welcome to our town. Though I live in it, I’ll say it is real nice.’
One of the men at the end of the counter suddenly bawled, ‘If I want another goddamn drink, I’ll have another goddamn drink.’
‘Excuse me, Mr. Devery,’ and Joe hurried down the counter.
I sipped my Scotch as I regarded the two men at the far end of the counter. One was short and skinny in his late forties. The other — the one who had bawled — was tall, beefy with a beer paunch and a red, sweating nondescript face that sported a thick Charlie Chan black moustache. He was wearing a lightweight dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a red tie. He looked to me like a not too successful travelling salesman.
‘Joe! Gimme another Scotch!’ he bawled. ‘C’on! Another Scotch!’
‘Not if you’re going to drive home, Frank,’ Joe said firmly, ‘You’ve had more than enough already.’
‘Who said I was driving? Tom’s going to drive me home.’
‘That I am not!’ the skinny man said sharply. ‘Do you imagine I want an eight mile walk back to my place?’
‘Do you good,’ the big man said, ‘Gimme another Scotch, Joe, then we’ll go.’
‘I’m not driving you,’ Tom said, ‘and I mean that!’
‘Why you skinny sonofabitch, I thought you were my friend!’
‘So I am, but I’m not walking eight miles even for a friend.’
Listening to all this, something nudged me. Fate’s elbow? I wandered down the counter.
‘Maybe, gentlemen, I could help,’ I said.
The big man turned and glared at me.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Now, Frank, that’s not polite,’ Joe said soothingly. ‘This is Mr. Devery, our new driving instructor. He works for Bert.’
The big man peered blearily at me.
‘So what’s he want?’
I looked at the skinny man.
‘If you drive him home, I’ll follow and take you back.’
The skinny man grabbed my hand and pumped it up and down.
‘That’s real nice of you, Mr. Devery. Solves the problem. I’m Tom Mason. This is Frank Marshall.’
The big man tried to focus me, nodded, then turned to Joe.
‘How about that drink?’
Joe poured a shot while Mason plucked at Marshall’s sleeve.
‘Come on, Frank, it’s getting late.’
As Marshall downed the drink, I said to Joe, ‘Would you call Mrs. Hansen and tell her I’ll be a little late for dinner?’
‘Sure, Mr. Devery. It’s real nice of you.’
Unsteadily, Marshall strode out of the bar. Mason, shaking his head, followed with me.
‘He doesn’t know when to stop, Mr. Devery,’ he muttered. ‘Such a shame.’
He and Marshall got into a shabby looking green Plymouth parked outside the bar. They waited until I got in my car, then Mason drove off. I followed.
Leaving Main Street, the Plymouth headed inland. After a ten-minute drive we reached what I guessed to be the best residential quarter to judge by the opulent houses and villas, set in well cared for gardens, ablaze with flowers. Another ten-minute drive brought us to forests and isolated farmhouses.
The Plymouth’s trafficator warned me Mason was turning left. The car disappeared up a narrow dirt road just wide enough for one car. We finally reached a dead-end and there stood a big two-storey house, completely isolated and half-hidden by trees and shrubs.
As Mason drove into the short driveway and then into a garage close to the house, I pulled up and reversed the car for the run back. I lit a cigarette and waited. After some five minutes, Tom Mason came hurrying down the drive to join me.
As he got in the car, he said, ‘This is real nice of you, Mr. Devery. I’ve known Frank Marshall since we were at school together. He’s a nice fella when he isn’t in drink. He’s frustrated, Mr. Devery, and I can’t say I blame him.’
‘Oh?’ I wasn’t particularly interested. ‘What’s his trouble then?’
‘He’s waiting for his aunt to die.’
I looked at him, startled.
‘Is that right?’
‘That’s it. He has expectations. He’s her heir. Once she passes on, he’ll be the richest man in Wicksteed.’
Remembering the opulent houses I had passed on the way up, my interest sharpened.
‘I’m a newcomer here, Mr. Mason. I wouldn’t know how rich that would be.’ It was carefully phrased. It could produce information, yet didn’t indicate I was fishing.
‘Between you and me, when she goes, he’ll inherit a shade over a million dollars.’
I stiffened. My attention became riveted to what he was saying...
‘Is that a fact? There’s an old saying about waiting for dead men’s shoes...’
‘That’s his trouble. The old lady is dying by inches... cancer. She could go tomorrow or she could live for some time. Two years back, she told him she was going to leave him all her money. Since then he has been counting the hours. He’s worrying so much about when she’s going to die he’s begun to hit the bottle. Before she told him, he scarcely touched hard liquor.’
‘Quite a situation, Mr. Mason.’
He put his hand on my arm.
‘Call me Tom. What’s your first name, friend.’
‘Keith.’
‘A family name, huh? It’s unusual.’ He scratched his chin, then went on, ‘Yes, it sure is a situation, Keith. I’m sorry for him, and I’m sorry for his wife although I’ve never met her.’
‘What does he do for a living?’
‘He runs a real estate business in Frisco. He commutes every day by train.’
‘Does he do all right?’
‘Well, he did, but since he began drinking, he’s complaining about the business.’ Mason shook his head. ‘But you can’t tell Frank a thing. The times I’ve warned him about his drinking. Let’s hope he’ll get the money soon, then maybe, he’ll pull himself together.’
I was now only half listening. As I drove back to Wicksteed, my mind was busy. A shade over a million! Who would believe anyone in such a one-horse town could inherit such a sum.
I was suddenly envious. If only I were in Frank Marshall’s place! I wouldn’t take to the bottle in frustration. With my expertise, I would raise credit on my expectations. I would...